Fiona has retired to Powis Castle for the duration of her pregnancy. No more haunts to London; doctor's orders. She is not on mandatory bed-rest - yet - but it has been a rough pregnancy for her, and she has been tired so easily, so very easily...
     It's to Powis that her son was summoned accordingly; told of the impending introductions. That the nymphs are all aflutter is no surprise. That the men are largely rolling their eyes? Well, that's to be expected. The first of the many 'eligible' young ladies is arriving in the Kingdom of the Flowering Tree, ushered from ship to port, from port to palace. And tonight, it appears, is the night where Iowerth Rhudd Draig may get the first glimpse at his potential destiny.
     Fiona has been kinder than perhaps she needed; the first introduction is not to be done in front of the assembled court. The lady's maids are strictly told to be left at the door; the lady herself, shown into Fiona's garden. There, there is the green, green grass where she had lain after her collapse. There too, the fruit trees and berry bushes that are so deliciously symbolic of her fruitful fertility. And here, then, each young lady must make her way to wait for her potential bridegroom, to impress him, or ... so thoroughly not.
     Princess Mirvayna Aristide is a small creature, with large, silver-grey eyes set in a pale face framed by raven hair that curls lustrously as it makes its way down her back. Her mouth is small, a cupid's bow painted pale pink; she wears quite a bit of pink, and it flatters her complexion. She knows that it does, for she has been told so by so many of her admirers. It's with a small sigh of dissatisfaction that she has made her way down into the garden at the appointed time, flowing robes loose and airy on her fragile figure. She moves among the trees and flowers with a light step, for she has been told how dainty and nymph-like her step ought to be, and is; and smiles in brief pleasure at a rare blossom.
     Spying the greener grass in the rade, she purses her lips again, then comes to rest in a bower, dainty hands folded upon her knees. And she blinks her large eyes with their dark lashes so lustrous, looking fixedly at a butterfly that's landed upon a bush.

     The news of the first meeting was hardly a surprise. The summoning quite expected. But even with the full understanding of this Inevitability, the order to go to the garden was answered with a sigh. He had half a mind to conjure some foppish costume, quite Scarlet Pimpernel with beauty mark and powdered face and wig to boot. Two bits, four bits, six bits a peso... all for Zorro, stand up and say so! Oh, he was bitterly tempted.
     But it is not even Captain's gear that suits such a meeting. The lady is expecting a prince. A prince she shall see. The Captain's Coat and Sword are on his ship (and such a ship, her own had to have espied it), and so too the ruffled ivory silks and high boots that go with his buccaneering ways. In their place, midnight blue is worn (his colors, always) -- a cotton shirt with long sleeves (the seadragons contained behind the veil they make), tied on -- a tunic from any number of centuries -- over midnight blue trousers of close fitted but not impolitely tight suede, the hide of white stags dyed to match his shirt. The boots are thick soled and made of leather, the soles are soft even as they are thick and make his normal marching stride quiet in tone.
     Against so much midnight blue, his periwinkle eyes and fiery colored hair are shockingly vivid. His hair, kept short for an odd modernist flair, is cut in spiked layers, a mussed look that causes his tresses to take on the very aspect of flames. There is only the faintest glimmer of green in his eyes, there around the irises periwinkle and flecking within that coral color some hint of the green seas that contain them.
     And there he is, quite suddenly the garden is full of him. He's a tall and broad thing -- he takes up the space that your small stature allows. The garden has been prepped for this -- glasses and decanters and foodstuffs are nooked and crannied in the garden, here and there -- but are you?

     At the moment, she is settled very cozily in her nook - until she spots you. And really, it would be hard for her not to; she blinks as you are so suddenly there. "Oh! You quite surprised me." There is a tone of faint reproach in her voice, along with a hint of Who are you? But she isn't so gauche as to be rude. She stands up, drawing herself up to her full if diminutive height.
     "I am Princess Mirvayna Delilah Evrardis Ermintrude Talliestre Aristide, of the Kingdom of the Silver Bow," she informs you with a tone that leaves no doubt how satisfied she is with her lot in life. "Would you happen to be Prince Iowerth Rhudd Draig, then? Or am I still to wait?" Blink, blink.

     His mouth quirks as your many names tick off your tongue. The wretch in him is tempted to ask you to repeat it -- sorry, what was all that again? -- but he doesn't. Iowerth inclines his head and then bows it slightly. It is more a congenial nod than a proper bow. "I am He," he offers with a bland tone and a gesture for you to be seated again if it pleases you. "And you have quite the list of names. Do you have a preference for which I should use or should I just call you Your Highness?"
     The bland tone is followed by a smooth pulling smile as he takes a seat upon a stone bench. "I hope I did not keep you waiting long. Did anyone show you the food and drink that are hidden here?" He is relaxed. Perhaps this is in direct opposition to your nervousness, or perhaps you will think him without manners. While he waits upon your answers, he takes a moment to reflect on your appearance. His eyes do not stay overlong, like advantageous, annoying relatives, but move from feature to feature, returning lastly to your face.
     You are so small, even sitting he seems to be eye-level with you...
     The smile hovers upon his features. When it is not expressed upon his mouth, it is glittering in his eyes. His temperament seems bemused, or perhaps merely amused. But at what?

     "Princess, Your Highness or Princess Mirvayna are all accepted forms of address upon my person," Mirvayna answers calmly, resuming her seat. She turns her gaze upon you, eyes widening. "How do you do, your highness? You are very tall. Much taller than I had expected. Tell me, if I may ask, what is your shoe size?" And she blinks again.
     "No, I have been quite alone since entering this place. I was rather looking at the grass - so odd, that it's two colours of green instead of only one, I rather shudder to walk on it! They say that there are strange and unexpected things in this place, and do you know, I haven't yet seen one? Not even an attempted kidnapping." She seems quite disappointed.

     "Princess Mirvayna," he echoes quietly as if to record that to his memory. Your question on shoe size takes him aback. A fiery eyebrow quirks up and he chuckles. "Hmm... you would have to speak with the royal cobbler, Princess Mirvayna. My shoes are made for me." He offers you a glimpse of the flat of his booted feet, the sole of his right boot. It's fairly sizable, proportional to his size.
     His foot returns to the ground, his legs relaxing long. "It is an interesting story, the story of the grass here. When my mother created the palace upon taking the crown, she lay on that very spot. They found her there, and where her body touched the earth the grass bears her shadow still..."
     Tilting his head, Iowerth studies you. His periwinkle eyes fix on you. To some, it would be a withering gaze. It is direct, it is tangible in its intensity. "Do unexpected things frighten you, princess?" he wonders quietly. "Or are you, instead, attracted by the mysterious? Are you the type to dip your toes in the surf or to head face-forward into unknown seas?"

     "Oh... dear." Mirvayne looks a bit doubtfully at your foot, her hands staying daintily in her lap. "Your feet are very big, aren't they? I don't know... oh, well." She looks philosophically off into the distance, then blinks as you begin telling your tale. "...Your mother lay in the grass? My goodness, that must have stained her gown terribly." Discreetly she checks her own gown for any sign of staining.
     She looks up, and you are looking directly at her. Grey eyes widen again. "Frighten me? Why, I don't know. I suppose they must, mustn't they? Nothing unexpected ever happens back home." Her tone implies that this is not necessarily a failing of her home kingdom. "But if I am not to be kidnapped or otherwise assaulted, it would be very difficult for you to rescue me, wouldn't it?"

     An eyebrow lifts again. "Is that a part of the wooing process in your kingdom? A test of a prince's seriousness?" He contemplates that for a moment, then chuckles briefly. The sound lingers in his throat and he sits back, his back resting against the tree behind the bench.
     You are simple. Easily frightened. Not very deep. Lovely, but too small. Too dainty. Too delicate. I would break you in half. If not in quarters.
     Iowerth lifts his arms, his hands going behind his head. There is nothing more he needs to know for himself, but it seems rude to dismiss you after only five minutes of discourse. "What is your kingdom like? Are you enjoying your visit?"

     "Wooing process? Well, no, but it's the done thing, isn't it? How else is anyone ever to fall in love if there's never any risk? Of course, there's always the possibility that the prince - that's you - might change his mind halfway through, and then I should be stuck," Mirvayna says placidly. "I would simply hope that you would not be so improper. Princesses must mind what is proper, mustn't they?"
     She has such big eyes, and she widens them whenever she asks a question. Someone has told her in the past how becoming that is, and as so many things, it has become part of her arsenal. Of course, though she does not know it, it's rather like going up against Old Ironsides armed with only a peashooter. "My father's kingdom? Oh, it's very vast, of course, and very wealthy," she says dutifully. This topic is one which she could speak on all day, but it clearly doesn't interest her. "I don't know; it's rather less green than here. But it's rather more orange. I'm very fond of orange, though of course it does mean that I can't wear pink nearly so much as I do here. My visit? Oh, it's quite lovely. Your mother has a lovely kingdom."

     "She does, rather. It is far more green than mine as well. Mine is a good deal more blue, which sadly also clashes with pink." As if that were any sort of consideration. At all. "Hmm... the done thing. I suppose it is in literary terms. Poets should be made to woo marriage before writing princes into corners," he drolls. "They would not be so hasty to throw princes into kidnapping and rescue scenarios if they had to do it themselves."
     Iowerth's eyes lift their attention from you to the leaves of the tree and the interspaced sky that hangs above the verdant canopy. Idly he wonders: Will I have to dance with her? Will it require more meetings than just this one? What has mother gotten me into? How long do I have to stay in order to be polite?
     "I am not much for propriety, myself. I am a captain of ships and seas," his voice mulls. "Propriety, properness for properness sake....is not something I take part in, Princess Mirvayna..."

     She looks quite horrified, though covers it quickly. "Oh, but poets are always getting themselves thrown into jail, aren't they? Or starving in garrets. But propriety? Sailing? I... excuse me, your highness." Mirvayna stands, curtseying with as much dignity as she can manage, eyes still wide. "I suspect that I had best go. After all, if you are quite improper, then it would be most improper of me to remain, wouldn't it?"
     Somewhere, her father's chamberlain is falling down of apoplexy. But the princess seems quite prepared to flee.

     He would be the first to clap the chamberlain on the shoulder or back in that You Did Your Best sort of way. But he would not disagree. It is not, so very not, a match.
     Iowerth sits forward, his arms lowering, and then he rises. There is a simple bowing of his head again -- though he is not a proper man, he is rather polite for a barbarian. "Your Highness, I wish you the best. May you find a man who will rescue you after a grand kidnapping. Please feel free to enjoy the gardens and castle. The libraries here are quite amazing. And the markets. You should have an escort take you to the village for the shopping."
     He is sure that will please you. There are many pink things to be had in the village square. Iowerth smiles a little as he turns, heading out of the garden and back to the castle proper...

Posted by rowan at August 06, 2006 08:50 PM